


The Homecoming Affair

by JessamineHughes



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 15:19:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18055028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamineHughes/pseuds/JessamineHughes
Summary: Illya hasn't seen his former partner in more than five years. Where has Napoleon been all this while--and what will happen when he shows up without warning on Illya's doorstep? And what other missing parts of Illya's life might reappear?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, I haven’t seen any of the show’s episodes in a very long time, so any errors or inconsistencies regarding canon are quite unintentional. For instance, I’ve invented Illya’s background out of whole cloth, likewise his family. (And now, of course, I’ve discovered you can watch the whole series on YouTube. Too late for this story…)
> 
> Second, I think I got “Napasha” as Illya’s nickname for Napoleon, and “Polya” as a love-name, from somewhere else in fandom. If I did steal them, I apologize and throw myself on the mercy of the court. (And if you know where they’re from, please let me know!)
> 
> Thirdly, the physics department at Columbia University is located nowhere near the location I give it in “The Homecoming Affair,” but I needed it to be hard to get to. So it’s wrong. So shoot me.
> 
> Finally, Starka is a kind of vodka now, apparently, available everywhere, but formerly made only in the Soviet Union and only for sales within the Soviet Union.

 

_November, 1975_

_New York City_

 

 

            By the time his plane landed, Napoleon was glad they’d given him a first-class seat.

            First they had to circle Kennedy for forty minutes while overworked ground crews cleared more runways. Then the backed-up flights made it a slow taxi to the terminal. Then the exit door was stubborn about mating with the jetway in the frigid air… and after that there was some other delay that Napoleon could neither identify nor care about. He’d had an extra ninety minutes’ sleep—or doze, anyway—in his comfortable seat. It took the edge off his exhaustion.

            But then there were more holdups. A long way from the gate to Immigration; a long wait in line, before he could get his passport stamped; a damnably cheery Immigrations agent, who wanted to _talk_.

            “Name?”

            “Napoleon Solo.”

            “Age?”

            “Forty…” He had to stop and think. Embarrassing and a potential giveaway. “Forty-three.”

            “Purpose of your visit?”

            “I’m coming home,” he said, which at least didn’t require any thought.

            “You’ve been to some interesting places, looks like.”

            “Yes, sir.” Some of them merely interesting; other outright inadmissible. But the passport was genuine—his own—and the visas were valid. He’d had help.

            “Good flight?” the agent wanted to know. Napoleon forced a smile onto his face. He answered that question and the next and the next. God help him, was the agent _bored_? Napoleon couldn’t see how, with all that work to do, or maybe the line was slow _because_ the agent was chatty.

            Finally the man shut up, stamped his passport, and let him go. _So he can talk some other poor bugger to death, probably._ But Napoleon didn’t hang around to find out.

            There was another wait to collect his suitcases at Baggage Claim. But the Customs agent wasn’t nearly as talkative as Immigration had been. Which would have been great, except that Napoleon had to declare a number of items, and explain some of them. The two bottles of sake purchased at the duty-free at Narita passed without comment. The third bottle required some fiddling.

            “I forgot to declare this in Tokyo, and they missed it, I guess. I probably owe you the duty.”

            The agent squinted at the bottle, looked something up and said “Uh… yes, sir.”

            Napoleon paid without a blink. They’d given him plenty of travel cash in the right currencies. Then there was just one more thing. He showed the agent the other contents of the duffle bag. The agent said, “What is it?”

            Okay, he wasn’t talkative; he was just stupid. “Medical equipment.”

            “What kind?”

            Napoleon explained. Again. This had been a hassle when he was boarding in Tokyo, too: his Japanese hadn’t been adequate to the task, and he’d had to slip the security people some of his cash yen. At least now he could speak English. “And there’s medicine that goes with it. Also in the duffle bag.”

            “I’ll need to see the permits.”

            “This doesn’t require permits.”

            “I believe it does.”

            Napoleon had had enough. “Then I’d like to speak with your supervisor.”

            The agent pursed his mouth and waved. A woman came over and said, “What is it, Fred?”

            “Gentleman doesn’t have the permits.”

            “Ah, okay…” The supervisor inspected the machine and the little glass vials. “Fred, it’s not narcotics. He doesn’t need permits.”

            _Thank you_. “Then let me through.”

            “Yes, sir. Go ahead.”

            As Napoleon headed for the men’s room, the supervisor was saying, “Fred, stop being such a jackass, would you?”

            Napoleon locked the door in a stall in the men’s room, took all the tags and stickers off his luggage, and emptied his pockets of his remaining change. The U.S. currency was all in his wallet. He flushed the toilet and went in search of the Traveler’s Aid box.

            It was in the last section of corridor before the exit lobby. Napoleon dropped a pocketful of change into it. Not many yen left—he’d spent most of that on the sake and the bribe. The rupees, kip, dong, and a few last kyat went into the box. He’d ditched the last of the illicit won (from the North) before he’d boarded the plane. God, if he’d had to travel with a passport that showed the places he’d actually been to in the last five years…

            He shivered and walked out into snow and freezing cold to join the taxi line.

            Needless to say, another wait. He couldn’t stop shivering. They’d given him a completely inadequate coat. Nor did his shoes have much grip. At least the sidewalk had been cleared.

            And the cab he got into had a blanket in the back seat. He dove under it before the cabbie had asked him where he wanted to go.

            “Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Morningside Heights—you know where Columbia is?”

            “Sure t’ing, pal. It’s gonna be a ride. All dis snow, ya know.”

            The Brooklyn accent, the casual “pal,” nearly made Napoleon cry. He swallowed. “The main gate would be fine.”

            “Sure t’ing. Hey, sorry about the heater, she kinda conked out yestiddy.”

            “That’s fine, the blanket’s warm enough.”

            “Okay, pal.” The driver pulled the cab out into the stream of traffic. Napoleon huddled under the blanket, made sure of the duffle bag—the one he hadn’t let out of his sight in so many thousands of miles—and closed his eyes. He would just rest for a few minutes…

            He woke up on Upper Broadway an hour later. The driver saw him rub his eyes, and ventured, “You awake dere, pal?”

            “Yeah. Sure. I…” A yawn split his face in two. “Sorry. Long flight. What the hell happened to the weather here? It’s only fall.”

            “Snow all day yestiddy. Till about noon today. Heck of a holiday, right?”

            “Yeah,” Napoleon said, and hoped it didn’t sound like as much of a blank “What?” as it felt. “Sure.”

            The traffic on Broadway was, well, nonexistent. The remaining ride was short. The cab pulled over in front of the university’s main gate and the driver said, a little doubtfully, “Dis it?”

            “This is fine. Thank you.”

            Napoleon paid the friendly driver the fare and a hefty tip, and he waved and zoomed away. There’d been time to plow the main streets, at least. Napoleon stood with the suitcases and the precious duffle bag for a moment.

            _No sense wasting time._

            The gate was open, welcoming, though the campus was as empty as the street. Napoleon had little trouble walking through the first quad; the paths had been cleared. The great library steps on the right still sat under forty-five centi— _eighteen inches, damn it._ A foot and a half. Either way, it was a lot of snow.

            In the second quad he had more of a tussle with his bags. Here the paths had been more tamped down than actually plowed, and making his way along them was difficult with the heavy suitcases. _Somebody should put wheels on these things._ And some of the little mounds that people had walked over were uneven, and Napoleon’s shoes were too smooth-soled, and…

            _I’ll make it. God damn it, I’ll make it. Just one more building to go._

            The Physics Department was… right over _there_. At least he hadn’t had to call anyone and ask. He’d known for years.

            There. And the steps had been more or less shoveled. Close enough that Napoleon was able to get up them without falling. Although it had been a close call and he’d been nervous about the duffle bag…

            _Here I am._ How many miles from where he’d started?

            The big plate-glass door looked heavy, and it was, but the nap in the cab had given him more energy, and he was indoors a moment later. He and the suitcases and the duffle bag.

            Now for the building directory. He hadn’t gotten _all_ the details ahead of time. He trudged over to a likely-looking case on the wall and ran his gloved finger down the list.

 

_Allen, N._

_Binder, F._

_Cho, S._

_Heskett, Z._

 

            … and there it was:

 

_Kuryakin, I.N._ 324

 

            He looked around for an elevator, saw something likely down the hall, and picked up the suitcases. He was so tired… but he’d had a nap in the cab, so …

            He trundled down to the elevator. It had a large sign taped to its doors:

 

_OUT OF ORDER_

_SORRY FOR THE_

_INCONVENIENCE_

 

            Oh, damn it.

            The nearest stairwell seemed a mile away. Napoleon gritted his teeth and carried the stupid suitcases to the foot of the stairs and without stopping—he didn’t dare—he lifted his feet and started upward.

            It nearly did him in. He wanted badly to stop and rest on the first landing, and refused himself permission. Same on the second one, and the third, and…

            He had to stop. He was out of breath and starting to cough. He said, _No_ , and kept going.

            On the third floor, he did stop, just long enough to check door numbers, and of course he was at the wrong end of the hallway, and…

            He made it. Room 324 was the last office on the right. It would have a view over the quad. Illya always had liked his views, although coming from Russia, why he wanted to see _more_ snow…

            Napoleon shook his head, set the suitcases down in the dim hallways, and knocked.

            There was no answer; he tried again. And then he realized that the lights were off in the office, too, and he couldn’t see anything…

            _Oh, no._

            All his energy drained out of him. It was late and he’d come so far and he was so tired and in so much pain and… _and Illya’s not here._

            He slumped against the wall, slid down, and wound up sitting on the floor, leaning against Illya’s office door, Illya who like him had left the agency, Illya his friend, Illya whom he… _Illya, Illya, Illya…_

            He was crying before the footsteps came echoing from the other end of the hall.

            At first he thought it was a janitor, come to replace lightbulbs. Or fix the elevator. Or fetch a badly mislaid snow shovel and go finish with the steps before it got any darker outside. Janitors whistled, didn’t they? Maybe? Napoleon started to raise his weary head, he’d have to explain himself, _quick, what am I doing here_ —

            Most janitors in New York probably didn’t whistle “The Cossack Lullaby” and then mutter, “They haven’t fixed that yet?” and then come to a stop and say, in surprised, accented English, “Excuse me, I—are you in one of my sections?”

            Napoleon didn’t have time to dry his face first. So God only knew what Illya actually saw when their eyes met.

            Certainly he didn’t see him, Napoleon. The puzzled voice went on, “The others have all gone home, I’m afraid, I’m the only one—”

            Damn the missing lightbulbs.

            “Illya,” Napoleon said hoarsely. “Illya, it’s me.”

            “I don’t—”

            There was a long pause, followed by a sound as though someone had been punched in the gut, and then something else, a stack of books and papers thudding to the floor, and finally a shaky whisper, “Napasha?”

            “Yeah, I… I think so.”

            Illya knelt carefully before him. Napoleon realized that half his face was covered, and reached up one hand to shift his scarf. The hand met Illya’s, descending.

            “Polya,” Illya said. “Bozhemoi. It’s you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

            Illya shakily removed the stranger’s scarf. Stranger? No. It was Napoleon. His friend, his partner, his…

            _That was a long time ago._

            “Hi,” Napoleon said with a weak smile. “And I’m sorry.”

            “What for?” Illya said automatically. “No, wait, damn it… how did you… where… what are you doing here?”

            It sounded stupid even before he said it, but he couldn’t think of anything more intelligent. He dabbed at tears on his face, saw that Napoleon’s was wet too.

            “The answer,” Napoleon said conversationally, “is that I’m not quite sure. I do, however, know that it’s cold out here. Do you by chance have your old samovar in that office?”

            “No, it was stolen—that’s why I locked the door—but yes, there’s tea in there.”

            “Could I have some?”

            “Da,” Illya said dazedly. “Let me give you a hand up.”

            “Thank you,” Napoleon said. “Wait, careful… okay, now.” He’d shifted something bulky off his shoulders and set it on the floor. Illya bent down to retrieve it for him. Napoleon said, “No, not yet,” and picked the bag up himself. Illya, on automatic pilot, opened his office door, nearly tripped over two suitcases, and veered around them to go in. Napoleon followed him.

            “Those are… yours, out there?”

            “Yes.”

            “Here. Have a seat.” Illya gestured. Napoleon sat down on the old couch where generations of physics students had worn the fabric away. Illya had only been at Columbia for five years, but the building was older than that. Illya busied himself with the electric kettle and setting up mugs of tea. He noticed distantly that his hands were shaking.

            “Just a minute, the electricity’s a little shaky after the storm, happens every time,” he told Napoleon. “Ah. There.”

            Napoleon accepted the cup gratefully when Illya pressed it into his hands. In the brighter lights, Illya could see his unexpected guest looking… cold. Pale. Tired—no, exhausted.

            “Are you going to tell me?” Illya said. _Where have you been, where did you just come from, why did you think it was bad enough you had to leave for five years without a word?_ He rephrased it. “Are you staying?”

            “Well,” Napoleon said, “I’m not going back to… where I was. Staying, I don’t know. Um, the Residence is expecting me for the weekend.”

            “They’re going to have to unexpect you,” Illya said. “You’re coming home with me.”

            Napoleon just nodded. _Too tired to protest? Too tired for banter? Don’t push him right now, wait till we’re somewhere more private… comfortable… warm…_

            Illya picked up the phone and dialed the number for the U.N.C.L.E. Residence from memory. When he hung up, Napoleon was holding his cup for more tea.

            “It’s a long way to the street,” Illya said, “and the paths need work, can you hang on while I call someone?”

            “A cab? Sure.”

            “No, a friend. I’m pretty sure he’s still on campus.”

            Why did Napoleon’s face freeze at that? What had Illya said? Never mind, no time to sort that out, not if he was going to get Janos on the phone and…

            Oh. Napoleon thought Janos was _that_ kind of “friend.” Well, he had no reason to know better. Illya firmly told himself, _Later_ , and made the call.

            Five minutes of very strange conversation later, Janos was banging on the open door and bounding into the office. “Hello!” he said cheerfully. “Illya, my friend, it’s only been a few hours, are you that desperate for my company?”

            “Not me,” Illya said. “I want you to meet an old friend of mine. Napoleon, Professor Janos Horvath, a colleague of mine in the math department.”

            “But you sometimes take a Hungarian discussion section,” Napoleon said to Janos, “and you’re from somewhere close to Lake Balaton.”

            Janos beamed through his beard. “I do, and I am! You? I can’t place the accent.”

            “It’s… a long story.”

            Which was a word on the side to Illya; so he said, “Did you drive today? I need to get Napoleon home.”

            Oh, damn. Janos’s bushy eyebrows had gone up. Oh, damn, damn, damn, now there would be questions—he’d mentioned Napoleon before. He glared at Janos, and the mouth snapped shut.

            “Yes, and I’m just parked around the corner,” Janos said. “Are those suitcases yours, Mr. Solo?”

            “Yes.—No, it’s all right, I’ll carry this one.”

            So there was something precious, or fragile, or hard-to-get, in that smaller bag. Illya gathered up the dropped books from the hallway, stuffed papers into his briefcase, and turned out the lights. A few minutes later they were all in Janos’s Jeep.

            “Straight home?” Janos said.

            “Yes, please. And I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to miss Ilo’s dinner tonight.”

            Janos nodded and started the Jeep. Janos was not stupid. He made cheerful conversation from campus to West Ninety-fifth. Driving like a maniac all the while, of course. He pulled to a stop in front of Illya’s building, helped Napoleon across the piles of snow, and set the suitcases beside him.

            “Can’t stop, Ilona’s expecting me,” he said briskly. “Pleasure to meet you. Illya, we’ll talk later?”

            “Or tomorrow,” Illya said. “Thank you.”

            “And from me,” Napoleon added in excellent Hungarian. “A pleasure to meet you.”

            Janos hopped back into the car. He never slowed down. Illya took Napoleon inside. The less time Napoleon spent out in the cold, the better.

            “Kyril Danilovitch, this is my friend, Napoleon Stepanovitch Solo. He’ll be staying with me.”

            “A pleasure to meet you,” the doorman said, “but if that is really your name, then I am the Tsar of All the Russias.”

            Illya looked pointedly at Napoleon.

            “Kharkov, city dialect,” Napoleon said, “and it isn’t, but my father’s name was in fact Stephen.”

            Illya sighed and fished out a ten-dollar bill, stopped, got a second one out, and handed it over to Napoleon, who tucked them neatly into his pocket. Illya would have to explain the game to Kyril later.

            In the elevator, Illya said, “Hit the button for Eleven. Oh, and you haven’t by any chance developed an allergy to cats, have you?”

            “Um. No. Not to my knowledge. Why?”

            “Because of Kotka and the kittens.”

            “How,” Napoleon said, “how exactly did your cat get pregnant from the eleventh floor?”

            “We think she got out when she was in heat and consorted with Mackie.”

            “We?” Napoleon said in an odd tone.

            “Ada and I.”

            “Oh.”

            “Ada,” Illya took the pains to clarify two floors up, when he’d had time to process the word and the tone, “is my neighbor. Eleven-oh-two. Mackie is her cat. Soon to be fixed,” he added darkly. “One litter is enough.”

            “How old are the kittens?”

            “They’re just starting to move around on their own, and she can’t keep them all in one place anymore, and it’s quite distressing for her.”

            Napoleon laughed for the first time in this whole strange hour. Less than an hour. Illya said, “Anyway, are you allergic?”

            “No.”

            On Eleven, Illya said, “Go left. Kuryakin residence last down the hall on the right.”

            Napoleon let him open the door.


	3. Chapter 3

A hot shower, a shave, clean clothes from the skin out, and wool socks loaned by Illya. That was better. Napoleon removed Kotka and one of the kittens from the suitcase, enduring indignant meows. He closed the suitcase against future feline invasions and stuck his feet into the slippers Illya had also loaned him. He opened the precious duffle bag and unwrapped its contents, then ventured out of the guestroom.

            It was a three-bedroom apartment, and added to that, the living room and a decent-sized eat-in kitchen made a spacious residence. Books crammed every corner, the floors were covered with comfortable old carpets. The living room, which Napoleon had seen on his brief tour, looked out on Ninety-Fifth Street. And it was warm in here.

            _But the best part is Illya being here._

            Enticing smells drew Napoleon to the kitchen. Illya was at the stove stirring something, and two places had been laid at the table. Illya greeted him with a smile.

            “Have a seat. Tea?”

            “Sure.”

            Illya had made tea, not in the stolen samovar, but in an ordinary ceramic teapot. Napoleon placed the unlabeled box on the table and sat down.

            “What’s that?”

            “It’s for you.” _And God, the things I went through to get it and to bring it safely home…_ “No, really. Open it.”

            Illya raised his eyebrows and lowered the heat on the burner, then came to the table. Napoleon didn’t warn him to be careful; Illya was always careful. He opened the end flaps of the box and carefully drew out the bottle.

            “Oh, my God. Napoleon. Starka.”

            “Yes.”

            “How did… where did you…” Illya’s eyes were tearing up. “Napasha, you brought this just for me?”

            The oddly mud-brown vodka, made only in Russia and for internal distribution only. Napoleon said, “Well, I was hoping for a little of it myself.”

            “Where did you _get_ it?”

            Napoleon had mentally rehearsed this conversation a thousand times. “I… can’t tell you.”

            “Can’t or won’t?” Illya said. “… no, never mind, I don’t care.”

            But he looked as though the wheels were turning. Napoleon just hoped they’d turn slowly. Illya put the bottle down—carefully—and came to hug him.

            “Thank you. That is a princely gift. I don’t know where or how you got it, but… God…”

            “Careful. No guessing allowed.”

            Part of their old game as partners. Work partners. Illya wasn’t going to want him as anything else. Well, friends, maybe. But lovers? Not after what Napoleon had done.

            “And I have to go stir the soup,” Illya said, and released him.

            Napoleon suddenly felt cold again, but it wasn’t physical this time. For one brief moment Illya had been touching him. _I’ll just have to make do with that._

            “What kind of soup?” Napoleon said.

            “Ah. Good question. Lots of things in it. I’m not even sure. Ilo made it.”

            “That’s Janos’s wife?”

            “Yes. The best cook on the Upper West Side.”

            “ _You_ didn’t do so badly.”

            A quick smile. “But I didn’t live here then.” The smile faded. Illya took a small breath in and stirred the soup again. Napoleon felt flayed raw. But it was his own fault. Bringing up anything to do with their former lives. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

            To cover the awkwardness, he said, “How did you meet the Horvaths?”

            “At a faculty party, originally. All of the hard sciences.”

            “Big party,” Napoleon said.

            “Yes. Do you want some toast? Eggs? Bacon?”

            “Bacon would be wonderful, it’s been a…” A while. Oops. No clues. Napoleon cleared his throat. “Yes.”

            Illya appeared to take the affirmative as applying to everything, and went about cooking and preparing, and they made light conversation until the food was ready. Napoleon hadn’t been so hungry in months, and he had two bowls of soup, lots of bacon, three eggs sunny-side-up—Illya hadn’t had to ask how he wanted them—and three pieces of toast. He wiped his mouth, stared at his emptied plate, decided that was enough. Illya cleared the table and stuck things in the dishwasher.

            “Let’s go to the living room, the good glasses are in there.”

            Napoleon followed Illya and the Starka to the front of the apartment and accepted Illya’s offer of a comfortable chair and a small glass of the vodka.

            “A toast to…” Illya said. Trailed off. _Yeah, to what? Love? Partnership? Reunion? My health?_ None of those seemed like good options.

            “To the Starka,” Napoleon substituted.

            “To the Starka,” Illya said, and they clinked glasses.

            The brown vodka was very, very good. Napoleon sipped his bit by bit, knowing he didn’t have much tolerance these days. Illya’s eyes were closed as he tasted his drink.

            “Gods. Napoleon. I can’t… I mean, thank you.”

            Napoleon nodded. The conversation, such as it was, faded. So much they could have been talking about. So very much. _But Illya won’t want to—I don’t even know why he’s putting up with me._ Napoleon yawned.

            “You’re tired,” Illya said instantly. “Let me put this away—” and he put the bottle of Starka in what was clearly a place of honor on top of the liquor cabinet. Napoleon wondered if curious kittens ever got up there.

            He yawned again and said, “I’m sorry. It’s been a long…” _Damn it. Clues again._ “I _am_ tired.”

            “Well, then go and sleep.”

            “Illya—” Napoleon stopped in the doorway. “I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon at—in the East Sixties. Two o’clock. I don’t know how late I’m going to sleep.”

            “I’ll get you up on time.”

            Napoleon stopped himself by main force from saying anything else. He nodded and went to bed.

 

            Late in the evening, still grading the afternoon’s neglected papers, Illya heard sounds from the guestroom. Wasn’t Napoleon sleeping? Or perhaps just a trip to the bathroom. Illya scolded himself for thinking intimate thoughts about his guest. Napoleon didn’t need him wondering what was going on—

            No, Napoleon was still in the guestroom. And there were more sounds.

            Illya put his blue pencil down and went and tapped on the guestroom door. “Napasha? Are you all right?”

            The coughing started again. Illya decided that he didn’t need permission, and went in.

            Napoleon was in bed, sitting up, coughing hard. Illya hurried to the bedside and said, “Napasha… what is it?”

            Napoleon pointed to… where? “Napasha, what do you need?”

            “The… duf…” between coughs.

            The duffle bag. Illya brought it to the bed.

            “Inside…”

            Illya unzipped it. So—it had held more than the Starka. “This is a nebulizer?”

            Nod. More coughing. “And… meds.”

            All U.N.C.L.E. agents had medical training to rival that of a paramedic, and Illya hadn’t forgotten his. He unwrapped the cord from around the nebulizer, plugged it in, added the contents of one—“Or two?”

            Napoleon held up two fingers.

            —two of the little vials, and gave Napoleon the mask. With some difficulty—stopping to cough—Napoleon got it on. Illya flipped the power switch to “on.” The machine start pumping the medicine into Napoleon’s lungs. Illya sat back on his heels and waited.

            After a while Napoleon’s breathing was calmer and less wheezy, and the coughs settled down from hard and painful-sounding to less so. After another while Napoleon was able to take a deep enough breath to speak. “Illya. Thank you.”

            “Are you feeling better?”

            “A little.”

            Napoleon wasn’t telling the truth—not the whole truth—Illya knew him well enough for that. And he had been crying and gasping when Illya had found him outside the office. And a number of other things piled up.

            “Napasha, you’re not well.”

            “No. I’m not.”

            For a split second Illya thought, hoped, prayed that Napoleon only meant a bad cold, a case of bronchitis, something like that… but already he knew better, and he sat back himself. “Tell me.”

            “It’s… they’re not sure. Exactly. But…”

            “But the appointment,” Illya said. The _Saturday_ appointment. “It’s—you told me Lenox Hill. _Where?_ ”

            “Big hospital on York Avenue,” Napoleon said. “Famous. Specialty care. You know what I’m talking about.”

            “Sloan-Kettering,” Illya said, and his arms dropped nerveless to his side. “Oh, Polya. Cancer.”


	4. Chapter 4

            Napoleon remembered.

            They had been partners at the agency, then friends, then lovers. That last had been the shortest time, but not a short one just the same. And it had been a horrid shock when it ended. _Came to a crashing halt,_ Napoleon corrected himself. _And whose fault was it?_

            The trouble had started on June 28, 1969. _Silly me, thinking that the Stonewall riots meant Illya the ex-Soviet wanted to be out and open._ Napoleon had yearned for public acknowledgment of their love and commitment. Illya hadn’t. The long version of the story had to do with discussions and fights and a lot of back-and-forth about why, why not, what the hell was so bad about openness, and ultimately an unmendable quarrel. The short version just read, _We broke up._

            At Napoleon’s behest.

            An opportunity to get himself out of the country had then presented itself, and wanting to be far away from the pain and sorrow Illya had caused him, Napoleon had jumped at it.

            He hadn’t planned on five years away. He’d thought, _a few months, maybe six or seven._ But… things had kept happening. More chances. And every time he thought he was ready to say no and go home, he remembered that Illya didn’t want him anymore, and he stayed.

            … but then he, Napoleon, had come back anyhow. What was he expecting?

            He sat back against the pillows as tears started rolling down his face. “I’m sorry, Illya.”

            “Sorry? What the hell for?”

            _Anything. Everything._ “I don’t know. Just… this can’t have been what you were expecting.”

            “Since I don’t know what I was expecting, let’s table that for now. I’ll take care of you, you must know that.”

            “I’ve got cancer. I can’t do this.”

            “Yes, you can,” Illya said sternly. “We’ll get you everything you need. And it’s 1975, the treatments are so much better…”

            After a while Napoleon said, “They don’t know for sure. But they sent me home for treatment.”

            Which wasn’t true, entirely. Napoleon had said to send him home. _Why? Because I was so scared, and when I’m scared I want Illya. Even if he doesn’t want me._

            “You’re cold,” Illya said. “I’ll get the other blanket.”

            He had to dislodge Kotka and a kitten to do it. Napoleon snuggled down under the blanket—but not too far, because lying down flat was what had induced the coughing fit. He hadn’t had one this bad in a while. _Thank God I didn’t have one on the plane…_

            Silence reigned except for the gentle hissing of the nebulizer. At length, Illya said, “Your appointment’s at two?”

            “Yes.”

            “Now it’s first thing in the morning, whether they like it or not. And I’m calling the Horvaths—”

            “At this hour?”

            “They’re night owls. And they’ll drive us.”

            “Us?”

            “Did you seriously imagine I was going to let you go alone?” Illya said.

            After another stretch of silence, Napoleon said, “You probably have questions.”

            “Many. I’ll settle for just a few, tonight. You’ll need to sleep when you’re done with that.”

            “Well, start at the beginning.”

            “What else is in the duffle bag?”

            “Two bottles of sake. Gifts to friends.” _If anyone still counts me as a friend._

            “And the Starka?”

            “Is genuine, if that’s what you mean.”

            “I could taste that. And I thank you. But where did you get it?”

            “I can’t tell you that.”

            Illya said, “So you said. Why?”

            Damn. _How did I forget how persistent he can be?_ “Come on, you know how this works.”

            “I used to.” But Illya didn’t press it. “The appointment tomorrow is with…?”

            “A Dr. Maureen Suarez. I don’t know her. They… arranged it for me.”

            “Who did?”

            “The… people who helped me.”

            “They had some connections, then.”

            “Yes,” Napoleon said.

            “You came a long way alone,” Illya said neutrally.

            “No,” Napoleon said, “there was an escort as far as… I mean, for some of the distance… but how do you know it was a long trip?”

            Illya took a deep breath. “All right. We’ll do details later. I’ll just say that they should have given you a better coat.”

            Napoleon kept his gaze steady. Illya flung up his hands in exasperation, an old and endearing gesture.

            “Fine! But I hope you don’t have any emotional attachment to that coat, because I’m pitching it down the incinerator tomorrow. Do you need anything else right now?”

            _You._ “There are also some tranquilizers in the duffle bag. Calms the cough and helps me sleep.”

            Illya found them and got him a glass of water. “Polya—”

            _Don’t call me that. I don’t deserve it._

            “—Napasha,” Illya said, going from the beloved’s name to the ordinary nickname. Had he read Napoleon’s mind? “I—there are phone calls to make. To Janos and Ilona, for one. And I’ll have to have my TAs come by and get the papers I dropped this afternoon. The grades are due on Monday. Ada can let them in.”

            “Are you sure about the Horvaths?”

            “Yes.” Illya touched his hand. Napoleon almost stopped breathing. “Is there anything else you need?”

            _Yes. I need you to love me._ But he didn’t say it.


	5. Chapter 5

            Suarez had been firm: get a new chest x-ray—“Colonel Alvareid’s is out of date”—and then a CAT scan. So it was rather later than first thing in the morning before they came to the important part of the appointment. Sitting in her office, Illya had never felt more anxious in his life. And how must Napoleon be feeling?

            “Tomorrow?” Napoleon said, almost his first words since his initial greeting to the doctor earlier in the morning.

            “Yes,” Suarez said. “I’m sorry it can’t be today, but—”

            “No, I mean… it has to be that soon?” Napoleon looked, if possible, more afraid than he had last night.

            “Mr. Solo, I understand your concern, but my concern is that waiting any longer might exacerbate—”

            “You mean it could get worse,” Illya said.

            “Yes.”

            “Yushka,” Napoleon said, all volition gone.

            Illya squeezed his hand. “Doctor Suarez, yes, please, we’ll take that time tomorrow for the surgery.”

            She looked relieved. “Good. I’ll get my assistant right on confirming it. And let’s admit you now, Mr. Solo. No point in going home—”

            _Where’s his home, now?_

            “—just to turn right around and come back. I’d like you to be better rested for the surgery. All right?”

            Napoleon said, “Yes. Yes, I guess.”

            The indecisiveness was breaking Illya’s heart. He wanted to take Napoleon’s hand to reassure him. But they were in public.

            “Fine. That’s settled,” said the doctor. “There are some papers to sign—and who’s the next of kin?”

            “I am,” Illya said.

 

            Settled in a comfortable room overlooking York Avenue, and with, at least temporarily, no roommate, Napoleon felt a little more relaxed, though the worry hadn’t altogether gone away. He said to Illya, “We should have brought a kitten.”

            He’d succeeded in making Illya smile. “Ha. If you think Kotka would let you near them.”

            “If you think Kotka wouldn’t be relieved to have one less evil minion to care for…”

            “If you think…” and then Illya stopped smiling and sat down. He said, “Tell me the story now.”

            Napoleon stopped smiling too. “Yes. But I don’t know where to start.”

            “May I suggest you begin at the beginning, like Alice in Wonderland?”

            “Um.” Napoleon pondered. Only so much he could actually say. Illya, damn him, was all too good at putting things together. “I… wasn’t feeling well. I hadn’t been for a while. I kept coughing.” Which had been a damn nuisance on stakeouts. “And it hurt more and more. Finally my… boss… asked. I told her what I knew. She took me to a local clinic. They said ‘bronchitis’ and sent me away with antibiotics.”

            “And they didn’t work.”

            “No. Well, they did for a while. But then I was coughing again. I was so sick, I was laid up in my hidey-hole coughing my lungs up, and it was a good thing she’d seen me when I was already sick, because when I missed a check-in—two, in fact—she decided to come and get me. This time it was the nearest hospital.” _Sort of nearest._ “That was step one. Step two, I got sick _again_ , I couldn’t breathe—so she came and got me again, and this time she brought me in and I went to a—a different hospital.” _Several hundred miles away._

            “That was the nebulizer?”

            “No, not yet.” Napoleon badly wanted to tell Illya—his _partner_ —the whole of the truth. But he couldn’t. “I was there for a bit, and they did some tests, but my boss said they didn’t know what they were doing. So she took me… elsewhere. There was a nightmare plane flight and—I’m authorized to tell this much—an American Army hospital near Tokyo.”

            “Ah. So this Alvareid really is a colonel. And that was the nebulizer.”

            “Yes.”

            “Alvareid told you to go home for treatment.”

            “He told me I needed treatment. He didn’t say anything about home. That was me.”

            “Ah.”

            “So I told him, and my boss, to send me home. Alvareid’s only other contribution was to connect me to Suarez, here—they went to med school together. And my boss got me the plane tickets and saw me onto the plane at Narita and wished me the best.”

            “So,” Illya said, “none of this was U.N.C.L.E. things.”

            “I think you knew that.”

            “Because our agency doesn’t have any military connections.”

            “I think you knew that,” Napoleon said again. “Illya, please, drop it.”

            “All right,” Illya said, “but not for good, mind you. So. A flight from Tokyo to JFK…”

            “With a stop in San Francisco.”

            “All alone?”

            “Not exactly.”

            “Can you,” Illya said carefully, “explain _that_ much?”

            Napoleon sighed. Illya obviously knew he’d been doing espionage work. “There was an escort on the first flight. He walked me off the plane in SF to make the call to Columbia to get your office hours, saw me back to the gate, and vanished. I slept all the way across the country.”

            “And landed at my office,” Illya said, “so you must have known where I was working.”

            Napoleon had to swallow. “I’d known that.”

            “Oh, really,” Illya said evenly. Then he said, “God. I’m sorry. I said I’d let it go. I’m sorry. Let’s… shall we just say we’ll leave all the difficult parts till there’s time for them? I’m sorry.”

            “I am too.”

            “Do you agree?”

            “Yes.”

            “All right,” Illya said, “so you were focused enough to get my office hours, but how did you know your flight would land on time, given the storm?”

            “I didn’t. But if it hadn’t, I’d have just gone to the Residence and tried calling you. No,” he corrected himself, “I wouldn’t have called. I’d have chickened out. That was why I went to the campus first. I was afraid if I didn’t see you first thing, I’d be too scared to see you at all.”

            “And you did want to see me,” Illya said.

            “Yes,” Napoleon said. “That was why I came home.”

            Illya swallowed. “Fine. So you came to get me—”

            “I came to find you. I don’t, to answer your next question, know what I would have done if you actually hadn’t been there, rather than just being down the hall in the copy room. Hauled myself out to the street again, I suppose. Or just… well, never mind. You _were_ there. For which I remain grateful. Not to mention that you took me home and tucked me into bed and fed me chicken soup.”

            “Turkey,” Illya corrected him. “Leftovers from Ilona’s dinner.”

            Napoleon only just stopped himself from saying, _It’s Thanksgiving?_ He’d been out of the country so long…

            “Well, the point is, you took care of me,” he said, “which I had no right to expect, so thank you.”

            “You had every right. Partner.”

            Napoleon’s mouth twitched.

            “… but please tell me, Napasha, that you would have told the Residence people that I was your emergency contact?”

            “I would have. You were. And one other person,” he had to add.

            “Your… ‘boss,’” Illya hazarded.

            Napoleon shrugged.

            “All right, yes, you can’t tell me. I just hope you will as soon as you can.”

            “I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Napoleon said. “But I will. As soon as I can.”


	6. Chapter 6

            Suarez had decreed surgery because they needed to do a biopsy of the mass they’d found, and because the damn thing had to come out anyway, and they might as well do it all in one rather than subject the weakened Napoleon to _two_ surgeries. Illya gave him a careful tuck into bed, said, “I’ll be right back,” and went to update Ilona and Janos by phone, then call Ada. “I won’t be home till later than I thought. Can you feed Kotka and the brood?”

            “Of course.”

            “Thank you.”

            Then there was one more phone call, the one he’d been putting off. He shut the door of the lounge, sat down, and grimly took out the communicator pen he’d never bothered to return. April Dancer answered. “Channel D open.”

            “April, it’s Illya, and I need to talk to him.”

 

             Napoleon woke to a familiar odor, blinked in confusion, and decided to open his eyes all the way. A familiar figure sat by the bed, pipe in hand.

            “Sir,” Napoleon said.

            Alexander Waverly smiled broadly. “Good morning, dear boy. How are you feeling?”

            “Um,” Napoleon said, trying to rub sleep out of his eyes. “I didn’t know you were here, sir.”

            “I’m retiring,” Waverly said cheerfully. “Call me Alexander.”

            Napoleon blinked. “Retiring?”

            “Yes, it’s when you aren’t working anymore.”

            “Yes, sir. But why? I mean when?”

            “You meant why,” Waverly said. “As to that, not very complicated, but I’ll get to that when you’ve answered my question.”

            “Uh… can you repeat it, sir?”

            “Alexander. How are you feeling?”

            This had better be answered, or he wasn’t going to get anywhere. “Um… better rested than earlier, I guess. How did you know I was here?”

            “I’ve kept track of you.” Waverly tapped his pipe out. “I’m not supposed to be smoking this in here—a lot of new fuss about smoking—but they allowed me one pipeful. Also, Professor Kuryakin called me. Which is to say—and stop worrying, he’s still in the building; I sent him down to the cafeteria to get some breakfast—which is to say, dear boy, that he was worried about you and angry with me. It’s hard to blame him, really.”

            “That’s too many things at once, sir. Why is Illya angry with you?”

            “I think he thinks I knew where you were all this time and didn’t tell him.”

            “You didn’t, did you?”

            “I most certainly did not. Your present employers are acquaintances of mine, not colleagues. In any case I didn’t know _specifically_ where you were. I had some notion about which continent, that’s all. Professor Kuryakin had to tell me where you were now.”

            Napoleon said, “Did he tell you _why_ I’m here?”

            “Yes. And I’m sorry you haven’t been well.”

            That left nothing to answer. “Aren’t you supposed to call a nurse when I wake up, sir?”

            “Alexander _._ I’m doing so right now.” Waverly pressed the call buzzer. “Have they been taking good care of you?”

            “Very good. Why are you retiring, sir? And when?”

            “Dear boy, I am ninety years old. One does get tired. As to when… soon.”

            “But—”

            “Here’s your nurse. The details will have to wait.”

            Frustrated, Napoleon let the nurse check what nurses checked, walk him to the bathroom, tuck him fussily back into bed. Then the Horvaths arrived. Ilona was tall, slender, and elegant, her accent heavier than Janos’s, but very pretty. Napoleon made introductions.

            “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Horvath, Professor,” said Waverly. “I’ve heard of you from my former employee.”

            “He speaks very highly of you, Mr. Waverly,” said Ilona.

            Lively conversation ensued, until there was an exchange of voices in the hallway and Illya arrived simultaneously with Suarez and her team of residents. Napoleon swallowed. They would be taking him to the OR soon.

            Suarez wanted to know how he felt. “Fine.” Had he eaten this morning? No, he hand’t had anything after midnight. Water? Just a little to take the pills they’d given him—for the cough, for fear, for sleep. The doctors said an orderly would be by soon to take him to surgery. The guests departed; Illya hovered. “Do you need anything?”

            “A book?”

            “I gave you mine yesterday.”

            “And it was very good, but I finished it. Not that I understood the physics.”

            “Thank you for the flattery,” Illya said drily. “I’ll get you something more interesting from home.”

            That word…

            The orderly came. Napoleon’s fear came back full force. He said something about it; they gave him a tranquilizer. It didn’t work. Illya tried to be reassuring, but that didn’t work either. Napoleon was glad when they finally wheeled him into pre-op, because it meant they would be sedating him soon. He asked them to let Illya into the operating room with him; they refused. He pleaded; they denied him, though kindly. Finally he begged, tears streaming down his face, and when they still said no he couldn’t calm down until Illya took his hand and swore that he would be in the recovery room when he woke up. When they wheeled him into the OR, the last thing he saw was Illya, waiting.

            The mask came down on his face and that was all.

 

            The biopsy was going to take a few days. Maybe three, maybe four, depending on what they found. So Dr. Suarez told Illya and the Horvaths and Mr. Waverly after the surgery. “It went well. But I’m going to be cautious on his recovery.” They had previously discussed Napoleon’s generally poor condition. “They’ll let you into the recovery room now.”

            A nurse led Illya away. He didn’t even turn to thank the people who had waited with him. It had been a silent few hours, Illya not feeling conversational even with his friends, and feeling more than a little angry with Waverly.

            Napoleon was asleep in a hospital bed, pale and thin, oxygen mask and lots of tubes attached to him. Illya sat down.

            “It’s all right, love,” he said in Russian. Perhaps the nurses wouldn’t understand. “I’m here.”

 

            It was a slow recovery. By evening Napoleon was awake enough to talk, but not much. Illya again slept on a cot in the room. Napoleon had a rough night—pain and difficulty sleeping—and Illya only left his side when he had to. Monday morning was a slight improvement, but Napoleon still wasn’t talking much. Illya tried not to worry. By that afternoon he _was_ worrying. The nurses reassured him. Napoleon would feel better when he could eat solid food, when the incision healed, and so forth and so on. Illya let them persuade him to go home for a shower and a hot dinner, but he came back afterwards. And wished he hadn’t left.

            “He’s got a fever,” the nurse said. “The blood tests should come back soon.”

            Illya knew enough medicine to guess at a post-operative infection, something Napoleon would be easy prey to in his weakened condition. He bit his lip and waited for official word.

            He was right, as it turned out. And worse, that evening Napoleon started sneezing, then coughing again—he’d caught a cold from somewhere. Maybe a delayed reaction to that long trek in the cold last Friday, Illya thought, and sat and waited for the x-ray results to come back.

            Bronchitis, said the pulmonologists.

            The surgery had been Sunday. On Wednesday afternoon, Suarez and the other oncologists and two doctors Illya hadn’t met yet arrived in Napoleon’s room. He stood up, pulse pounding.

            “You have the results,” he said.

            Suarez nodded. “But he’s sleeping. Let’s go out to the lounge.”

            Illya didn’t want to leave, but Napoleon needed the rest. In the lounge, he closed the door and said, “Tell me.”

            “It’s good news,” Suarez said. “The tumor wasn’t malignant. It’s not cancer.”

            Illya’s knees wobbled. He clamped one hand on the back of a chair. “You’re sure?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then what…” he swallowed. “What _is_ it?”

            The rest of the team started saying things. An entirely benign mass that sometimes formed, possibly due to air pollutants, blah blah blah, Illya didn’t care about the details, just that Napoleon wasn’t going to die. He sat down and dropped his head between his knees and tuned the doctors out. Napoleon wasn’t going to die.

            But the bronchitis worsened overnight, and by Thursday morning a second chest x-ray, taken with a portable machine in the room because Napoleon was too ill to be moved, proclaimed that he had pneumonia.


	7. Chapter 7

            Illya arranged for his TAs to deliver his lectures, to bring him the tests and papers to grade. It was something to do. Ada fed Kotka and her brood; Ilona fed Illya. But nobody could persuade him to leave the room. There were visitors—Janos and Waverly, some other friends, a few people who had known both Illya and Napoleon at U.N.C.L.E. Illya wasn’t interested in visitors.

            _I just want Napoleon._

 

            “Dear boy,” Mr. Waverly said on Friday evening, “you really need to sleep.”

            “I’ve slept,” Illya said.

            “In your own bed, I meant. Come. Let me take you home.”

            “Thank you, no, I’m staying.”

            Waverly sighed. “At least come out for dinner to someplace better than that cafeteria.”

            “Ilo is bringing leftovers.”

            “It can’t still be turkey and stuffing.”

            No. “Mr. Waverly—”

            “Alexander.”

            “Why do you bother?” Illya said. “Why bother even coming here? You’re the one who sent him away.”

            Waverly’s face changed. “Dear boy—that is not at all what happened.”

            “Tell me what did happen, then.”

            “You’re angry. I understand. But I can’t tell you what you need to know. You’ll have to ask him.”

            “And what if he dies, now, and I can’t?” Illya said. “Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”

            Waverly left, elderly and shrunken. A pang crossed Illya’s heart as he noticed for the first time that Waverly was using a cane. He set his teeth and went back into Napoleon’s room.

 

            Napoleon fought his way up through the fog of fever and pain and sedation. It seemed that the room was cooler than it had been. He cleared his throat, pawed at the oxygen mask, and said, “Illya?”

            The dim figure by the window turned. Oh, good, it _was_ Illya.

            “Napasha? You’re awake!”

            “I think so.”

            “You don’t _sound_ like you’re talking in your sleep.”

            “Have I been doing that?”

            Illya smiled. Wonderful, heart-stopping sight. Napoleon said, “Can I get this thing off my face?”

            “Not without permission from the pulmonologist.” Illya was at the bedside now. “Anything else you need?”

            _You._ “What time is it? No, wait, what _day_ is it?”

            “It’s Tuesday night.”

            “What time?”

            “Dinnertime, I think. I smelled food from the hall a little while ago.”

            Napoleon thought the idea of food was wonderful. “Can I have some?”

            “I can’t make any guarantees.” Illya pressed the buzzer for the nurse. “Let’s see what Sheila says.”

            Napoleon tried to add up days in his head, and couldn’t make it work. “Which Tuesday?”

            “The second one since you came home.”

            “I don’t remember.”

            “There’s been a lot going on.”

            “The _second_ Tuesday?”

            “December ninth, if you want the specifics.”

            Napoleon started to sit up, coughed, decided to stay as he was. Sheila the nurse came in. Napoleon vaguely remembered her from the endless time of heat and confusion. She said, “How are you feeling?”

            “Hungry, and can I please go to the bathroom on my own?”

            “No. Food, maybe. After I check your vitals and Dr. Roman comes and takes a look.”

            Napoleon let her do what she needed to do. She looked pleased. “Fever’s down to a hundred. Your blood pressure’s good. How does it feel to breathe?”

            “Less painful than it was.”

            “Good! Dr. Roman should be by soon—he’s the resident on call—and I’ll page Pulmonology.”

            She went out. Napoleon floundered for conversation. Um. “Kittens okay?”

            Illya smiled. “Ada reports furniture damage and a harried mother cat, so I would say yes.”

            Ada. The neighbor. Mackie’s owner. Mackie who had impregnated Kotka. “I could use some kitten company.”

            “Well, when you come home…” Illya trailed off. “I mean, if you want to. Come back to my place, I mean, when they discharge you from here.”

            “Yes,” Napoleon said. “Yes, I’d like that.”

            Then _when they discharge you_ caught up with him, and he said, “Illya, the biopsy…”

            “It was benign. Not cancer.”

            Napoleon shut his eyes and wept.

            “Polya, please, it’s all right… I’m sorry. I’m sorry you didn’t remember… you were pretty sick by the time they got the results.”

            Napoleon swallowed and wiped his face. “I guess so. Is this still the regular ward?”

            “Same place you’ve been all along.”

            “Not ICU.”

            “No.”

            The conversation lagged. Sheila returned with Dr. Roman in tow, and then the specialists started arriving. Illya excused himself. Why, Napoleon wasn’t sure, but there wasn’t time to ask.

 

            Illya  walked down the hall to the lounge and collapsed on a chair.

            _He’s going to be all right. And he wants to come home. Does that mean he wants to come back—to me?_

            No, that couldn’t be. Napoleon had made his feelings clear five years ago. He didn’t want anything to do with Illya, not that way. Illya couldn’t blame him. At least Napoleon had come home to him and wasn’t totally disgusted with Illya’s response to his needs.

            _All right. I will take what I can get. If that means taking care of him for the rest of my life and yet not having his love, I can do that._

            He went back to Napoleon’s room.


	8. Chapter 8

            When Napoleon finally came home, there had been snow again. But it had already melted by the time Napoleon stepped out of the Horvaths’ Jeep and crossed the sidewalk, holding Illya’s arm. He still felt weak, and he wondered how awful he looked, but it was wonderful to be free of the hospital and out in the clean air. He said, “Thank you, Kyril Danilovitch. Come upstairs later and we have something for you.”

            “Illya Nickovitch mentioned the Starka. Were you really in—”

            Napoleon held up a sly finger. Kyril grinned and said, “I’ll be up as soon as my shift is over.”

            “And we’ll be back with dinner later,” Ilona called as Janos gunned the motor. “See you then!”

            Napoleon waved. Illya led him up the single step to the lobby and across to the elevators. Kyril put Napoleon’s bag of belongings from the hospital in the elevator and stepped back. Illya punched the button and the door closed.

            “A little different from the last time we did this,” Napoleon observed.

            “Yes,” Illya said dryly, “this time we only have one bag, and most of what’s in it is useful.”

            “Yes,” Napoleon said. “What did you do with that silly coat, anyway?”

            “As I told you. I shoved it down the incinerator, what did you think I was going to do with it?”

            Napoleon leaned back against the wall of the elevator, smiling. For now, at least, he and Illya were at peace. Things still lurked in the background, but the background was pretty far back. There would be enough time later to talk about the hard things.

            On Eleven, Illya grabbed the hospital bag, twitching it out of Napoleon’s grasp. “Oh no you don’t. You are to take care of yourself, and I am to take care of you.”

            “Yes, mother.”

            Illya grinned. He let them into the apartment, hung up Napoleon’s borrowed coat, and said, “You are to go right to bed. Remember?”

            “Can I stop in the bathroom first?”

            “You said you wanted to see kittens. There aren’t any kittens in the bathroom. You have to go bed in order to—ah.” Illya had nearly tripped over a small racing feline. Racing away from its mother, in hot pursuit. “Never mind. Yes, you may go make your visit to the bathroom first.”

            Napoleon settled into bed, wearing pajamas, slippers, and Illya’s wool socks. Illya appeared after a while and asked if he wanted tea.

            “No, I think I do need a nap.”

            “Well, that’s understandable. You’ve been on your feet for two hours. Probably tired.”

            Certainly it was the longest time Napoleon had been out of bed for some time. For however long he’d been in the hospital.

            “Feeling all right?” Illya added.

            “Mostly. A little sore where the scar is.”

            It wasn’t quite a scar, yet—the incision from the surgery—and Napoleon was more than a little sore. But Illya didn’t challenge him.

            “All right. Have your pain meds and a nap and I will set up your nebulizer later.”

            “Yes, mother.”

            “Behave yourself,” Illya said mock-sternly, and went away.

            Napoleon snuggled down into the warm bed, savoring the soft blankets and the non-hospital sheets, and was asleep in moments.

            It was almost four by the time he woke up. Getting out of bed, getting dressed, the whole production of discharge instructions and getting him into the Jeep, had been exhausting. He rubbed his eyes and sat up—carefully, as was usual nowadays—and carefully lowered his feet to the floor. _I’m getting tired of being careful._ He padded (carefully) out into the hall, and tracked Illya down in his study.

            “Illya? What was it you said about tea?”

            “Ah!” Illya jumped up. “With or without strawberry jam?”

            “With. I have this strange friend who taught me about that.”

            “I’ll go put the kettle on.”

            Napoleon made a mental note about Christmas presents.

 

            Days passed. Illya went back to work: it was almost exam time, and he’d neglected his students shamefully, or so he said. Napoleon knew for a fact that he’d done his best from Napoleon’s hospital room. Ada and the Horvaths and Kyril visited; after a couple of days Napoleon felt strong enough to walk up and down the block on Kyril’s arm while Illya was at his office. Mr. Waverly visited, too, but somehow only when Illya was absent. After the third of these curiously-timed visits, Napoleon asked.

            Waverly sighed. “I fear I’ve rather upset him.”

            “Oh?”

            “He thinks that I’ve known all along where you were and what you were doing, and that it was some kind of bloody-mindedness rather than actual ignorance that caused me to keep the knowledge from him.”

            “But you didn’t know,” Napoleon said, startled, “… or did you?”

            “In a very general way, yes. I knew… how shall we say, I knew who you were working for.”

            “Did you send them my way, then, back when—when it happened?”

            “Yes and no. I mentioned you to an acquaintance of mine and I may have mentioned that you were feeling restless. I certainly didn’t intend for her to hire you out from under my nose.”

            Napoleon put down his teacup. “You didn’t?”

            “No. Dear boy… Napoleon… I was devastated when you left, much as Illya was, though not as much. I recognize that it was your decision, though. I am only sorry that I ever may have given you the impression that I thought you should leave.”

            To see Waverly, boss of bosses, apologetic and unsure of himself was disturbing. Napoleon said, “And Illya was… upset?”

            “Very much.”

            “But—”

            Waverly held up a hand. “I am not going to step between the two of you. You must work it out on your own, between yourselves.”

            That was more like him: crisp and clear. Napoleon asked about the cane.

            “I’m old, Napoleon. And please, no, do not say I’m not. I’ve earned that much.”

            “You seem to be in remarkably good shape for being old, though.”

            That earned him a smile. Napoleon changed the subject, quashing all the questions he wanted to ask: _did Illya think I was leaving him, as such? Did he think I hated him?_

_Does he hate me?_

 

            On the eighteenth of December, Illya, coming home from the last exam of the finals period, saw Napoleon holding the front door open for Kyril, who was carrying a large box. A taxi was pulling away from the curb. Napoleon heard Illya’s footsteps and turned, with his usual smile, then turned back and hissed something to Kyril, who hurried into the lobby. Napoleon said, “You didn’t see that.”

            Illya was amused. “Are you subverting my doorman now?”

            “Certainly not.”

            “Where did you go in that cab?”

            “I didn’t, I went in a different cab.”

            “Where did you come _from?_ ”

            “Mind your own business.” Napoleon peered into the lobby. Apparently all was well, as Napoleon stood aside to let Illya in. “After you, Alphonse.”

            “Thank you, Gaston,” Illya said. The lobby was empty: no sign of Kyril or the box. Illya decided to play along. “Napasha, are you coming upstairs?”

            “Up the elevator, maybe.”

            Illya sighed. “It’s clear you are getting better. Come on, I’ll make tea.”

            A shade of something like guilt crossed Napoleon’s face. “Um, okay.”

            In the apartment Illya put down his satchel, full of exams, and said, “If you’re up to it, maybe you could make the tea. I have all this grading to do.”

            “Sure.”

            Napoleon rattled around in the kitchen for a while, then brought tea—elegantly served in Illya’s best battered cups, on a chipped tray—into the study. “How are the students doing?”

            “So far, so—ow.”

            A kitten had started to climb his leg. Illya firmly detached it and handed it to Napoleon. “Would you take this away, please?”

            “Its feelings are hurt.”

            “So is my leg, not to mention potential damage to my clothes.”

            “Heartless, that’s you.” Napoleon pouted. “Oh, fine, kick us both out. But there will be consequences.”

            “Yes yes. Go away now.”

            Napoleon smiled and went, and Illya, disturbingly distracted, turned back to the blue books. Napoleon pouted so nicely. It was all very well that he was healing from the surgery and the pneumonia and the generally poor condition he’d been in, but that meant that he was more and more like his old self. Which was the distracting part.

            _If he keeps on like this he will be the young and gorgeous man I fell in love with. Doesn’t he know how hard that is for me see in front of me, when I can’t have him anymore?_

 

            Illya woke that night to… not a cry… rather, a full-throated scream. His own. He sat up in bed, panting, trying to reorient himself. Halfway through it, the door burst open.

            “Illya! What is it?”

            Illya shook his head. “You… it was you…”

            “I woke you up?”

            “No. Sort of. Yes. No…”

            “Hey.” Napoleon came and sat on the edge of the bed. “C’mon, take a breath. Yeah, now another one. Deep breath, Illya. It’ll be all right.”

            Illya shook his head, on the edge of tears. It had been so vivid. “Can’t.”

            “Deep breath. C’mon. You can do it.”

            Illya managed one deep breath. Napoleon took his hand.

            “Now tell me what happened.”

            “I don’t… I can’t…”

            “Something happened. Were you dreaming?”

            He hadn’t been fully awake, and yet it had been so vivid, and so _likely…_ Illya shook his head again. “Ya ne znayu,” he said. “Ya ne znayu.”

            Worry crossed Napoleon’s face. “You’re having bad dreams and reacting to them in Russian. Now I know something’s wrong.”

            “I don’t know what happened,” Illya said, fighting to speak English. “Dream? Ya ne—I don’t know.”

            “Tell me what you do know.”

            Illya gulped, trying to steady himself. “It was about you.”

            “Yeah? And?”

            Steadiness was out of reach. “I dreamed about you.”

            “What happened in the dream?”

            “You… you…” Illya didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to think about it. “Can we not, please? It was bad.”

            “I want to hear it. I think you need to hear it yourself. Maybe if you say it we can work on whether it was a dream or not.”

            “I would prefer it to be a dream.”

            “So tell me.”

            “I’m not going to say it.”

            Napoleon sighed. “I know that tone. Pigheaded Russki. You’re as stubborn as I am.”

            “Hah. I beg to differ.”

            “Oh yes? Then why do I recognize that tone?”

            “You tell me,” Illya retorted. He knew the answer full well. He just didn’t want to be the one to say it, if it had to be said at all.

            Napoleon said, “Shove over.”

            “What?”

            “Move over, Illya. Look, I know you’re upset, I don’t know why, but I do know how to make it better.”

            Illya’s mouth twitched. Snuggling in together had been a hallmark of their relationship, right up to the final, disastrous blowup. Illya moved over. Napoleon climbed into bed and pulled the blankets up over both of them.

            “Sleep,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”

            Amazingly, Illya did sleep.

 

            Napoleon didn’t, but he didn’t tell Illya the next day. Instead, he was awake thinking.

            Illya, nightmares, and speaking Russian in distracted tones. Not a new combination. Old and familiar from their days as lovers. Which they would never be again, but it was comforting to find the old reflexes still awake and alert. _Maybe if we can’t be lovers we can at least be friends? That would be nice._

            And anyway Illya had always meant more to him than anyone else, friend, enemy, or otherwise.

            _But what was he dreaming about this time? Something I did. Something upsetting… was he dreaming about the breakup? Certainly I was responsible for that, though I didn’t want to do it. He just wouldn’t come out in public and I thought it meant he didn’t want me anymore._ For the first time Napoleon began to doubt himself and his reactions to things, five years ago.

            _God. What if that was a mistake, what I did?_

            He didn’t sleep at all.

 

            Christmas dinner was going to be at Illya’s place, not the Horvaths, for Napoleon’s sake. He still tired easily. But it would be a large and festive meal: Ilona was cooking, Janos was going to provide some entertainment, and multiple people had been invited. Ada from next door; Kyril, who had the holiday off; from the agency, Mark Slate and April Dancer and even Susie the doorwarden; and Mr. Waverly. Add Illya and Napoleon and you had the full capacity of Illya’s kitchen table.

            Napoleon had requested that last guest, and Illya had conceded. He didn’t want Napoleon to see him angry with their former boss, and he felt guilty about his last interaction. Shouting at an old friend—friend? Yes—when he was only trying to help…

            So the plans went forward. On the surface, all was well between Illya and Napoleon. They traded banter and lighthearted jokes and somehow stuck to their pact to leave the hard bits for later. Illya had begun to dread “later.” He had more nightmares, but tried to keep them from Napoleon. But he feared they were showing. He took to keeping his reading glasses on, hoping to hide the dark circles under his eyes. But he feared Napoleon knew what he was doing.

 

            On the morning of the twenty-fourth of December, Illya woke to the smell of bacon and the sound of Napoleon humming. His heart lifted: that was an old thing, too, as old as the snuggling—in which they’d indulged since his first nightmare, without talking about it, in one bed or the other. Illya grabbed his ratty old bathrobe and went to the kitchen.

            Several pans were sizzling on the stovetop: bacon, eggs, sausages. Was that pancake batter Napoleon was stirring, humming all the while? And there was coffee, and cream. The good plates were laid on the table, the good silver, orange juice in the nice cut-glass tumblers. And there was a box.

            “Napoleon, what have you been up to?”

            “Good morning to you, too! Cooking.”

            “I can see that. What’s this box?”

            “It’s a box.”

            Illya growled. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

            Napoleon merrily tossed a double handful of blueberries into the mixing bowl. “It’s for you.”

            Illya paused. “I thought we were doing presents tomorrow.”

            “We are. This is… something different.”

            “Oh yes?”

            “Yes. Stop being so suspicious, and sit down.”

            Cautiously, Illya sat. “I’m supposed to open this now?”

            “Hang on… lemme just do this…” Napoleon ladled out enough pancake batter for an army. “Okay. Now.”

            The box was wrapped, but not in Christmas paper. Ordinary stuff. Under the paper was a box of thin cardboard, as from a department store. Illya didn’t bother to look at the logo. He slit the small pieces of tape holding the box closed, and took off the top, and picked up a long piece of some kind of fabric .

            “Napasha…”

            “Try it on.” And when Illya hesitated, Napoleon said, “Go on, will you? It’s a… host gift. For being such a, a host. A really good one. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that tattered old thing you wear every morning.”

            Illya wore it every morning because Napoleon had given it to him, all those years ago. Did Napoleon remember that? Illya bit his lip not to ask, and shuffled the old bathrobe off and hung it over the chair and tried the new one on.

            “Napoleon, it’s lovely.”

            “It fits?”

            “Apparently you haven’t forgotten my size.”

            Napoleon grinned, raised an eyebrow, and turned back to the pancakes and bacon. With his back to Illya, he said, “So you like it.”

            “I do. Yes. Very much.” _And I want to kiss you for it._ But Illya didn’t dare rupture their tentative, fragile peace by saying so. “Thank you, truly.”

            “If and only if you pitch the other one down the incinerator after my coat,” Napoleon said, and started to serve.

 

            The weather was cold, but not piercingly so, and there was no snow in the forecast; so after breakfast and after Napoleon had had a nebulizer treatment, they bundled into coats and scarves and gloves and went for a walk. Illya wanted to take Napoleon’s hand. They greeted Kyril, turned right along West Ninety-Fifth, and walked as far as the park.

            “Tired?” Illya said when Napoleon sat down on one of the benches.

            “No. Come here.”

            Illya sat. “What’s going on?”

            “I wanted to ask you about Alexander.”

            Illya looked away. “So you’ve decided to cozy up to him and use his first name.”

            “Don’t be rude. ‘Cozying up’ implies I have something professional to gain from it, and that’s not the case.”

            Illya flushed. “I’m sorry. Go on.”

            “He thinks you’re upset with him. Are you?”

            “Napoleon, must we have this conversation out in the cold?”

            “We need to have it,” Napoleon said, “and we’re here now. So answer the question.”

            Illya said, “I am upset with him. Yes.”

            “I don’t understand why.”

            “You haven’t even heard my reason.”

            “I’ve heard it from him. Are you upset with him for my departure from the agency?”

            Illya looked away. “Yes.”

            “In that case, little friend, you are being a class one jackass.”

            “Possibly,” Illya said tightly, “or possibly you’re nosing into things between him and me.”

            “Or possibly you should have asked _me_ why I left,” Napoleon said, and there was a long silence.

            “I don’t want to ask,” Illya said. “I don’t want to _know_.”

            “No?”

            “No, damn it. I thought we were going to leave the hard parts till we were ready.”

            “I’m ready,” Napoleon said, “so what are you avoiding?”

            “Damn it!” Illya wasn’t ready at all. “Can we not leave this a little longer?”

            It was Napoleon’s turn to be quiet.

            “If you can’t bear to talk about it, Illya, fine. But I can’t wait forever.”

            “Are you going to pick up and leave again?” Illya burst out.

            Napoleon stopped in the process of standing up, and turned. “So you do want to talk about it.”

            “Yes. No. I…”

            After a moment, Napoleon softened.

            “All right. Maybe not right now. It’s cold, as you say. Let’s just… finish going around the block, all right?”

            Illya wanted to cry. So close, they’d come so close to avoiding the subject altogether… but had he really wanted to avoid it forever? Shaken, he just nodded.

            Napoleon didn’t come to his bed that night.

 

            Napoleon heard the scream again. He was up and moving before it was over. He knew Illya had had more than one nightmare since the first; knew that Illya didn’t want him to know. Well, that was too bad. _I do know and I’m not going to let it go any longer._ He tapped on Illya’s door, but only to announce his entrance, not to ask permission for it.

            Illya was sitting upright in bed, sobbing into his hands. Napoleon came and put an arm around him. “Lean on me, Yushka. It’s all right. I’m right here.”

            Illya collapsed weeping against him. Tears sprang from Napoleon’s own eyes. He’d never been able to bear it when Illya cried. And his Russian, his love, his one and only, had plenty to cry about. A family lost to him, probably dead. A longing to belong in his native place, but that was never going to happen... too many years in the U.S. and too many bad memories from the Soviet Union… and Napoleon himself was responsible for a lot of the tears. The usual twinge of guilt went through him at the thought. He thought he’d tamped that down in the past five years, but no, here it was again, springing up in all its full original glory.

            “Illya,” he said, whispering into the soft yellow hair. “I’m sorry.”

            Illya shook his head. “No. Not… not your fault.”

            “It was.”

            “ _No._ ” Illya sat upright. “Listen to me.”

            “Me first.”

            “No. I—”

            “Let’s flip a coin,” Napoleon said patiently.

            Amazingly, Illya laughed, though it set off a fresh flood of tears. “All right… I think I’ve got a subway token in my pants over there…”

            Napoleon looked. “Uh… no.”

            “Rock, scissors, paper.”

            “Just to be clear, we’re playing this to see who talks first?”

            “Da.”

            Napoleon won the first two rounds. “Can I come snuggle in with you?”

            Illya flipped the covers aside. Napoleon got in. When Illya had stopped crying, Napoleon started talking.

            “I think I need to apologize. Which is to say I do need to. Only I don’t know how to go about it. I don’t… There’s so much. So much to say.” _Illya, I love you and I want you back._ Okay, too soon for that. “I want… I’m sorry. I don’t know where to start with how sorry I am. And exactly what I’m sorry about. I shouldn’t have left, I know that much.”

            Ordinarily, Illya, argumentative Russian Illya, would have stopped him right there. But they were playing the old game, talk-and-listen, and Illya knew the rules. Napoleon said, “I shouldn’t have… I… I left. I just up and left. Without any warning and without telling you where I was going and _why_ and how long I was going for. I’m _sorry._ I was sorry the moment I did it. I’m sorry. I was so angry and I didn’t know what to do and I just wanted to… to get away from the situation. It hurt so much. When you…”

            Napoleon took a deep breath, because here was the center of it. “When you didn’t want to come out in public, to be publicly with me. I never understood why and you wouldn’t tell me and I couldn’t understand. So I left.”

            “You had every right to be angry,” Illya said quietly, when enough time had passed that Napoleon had obviously ceded his turn.

            Napoleon shook his head. “I wasn’t…”

            “You were and it’s my turn and don’t interrupt me, aren’t those the rules? So. Yes. I am sorry… for everything.”

            But then there was a long pause. Napoleon said, “Should I give you more time?”

            “… no.”

            So it was back to Napoleon. “Illya, love, I wasn’t angry. I mean, I was. For a long, long time. Very angry.”

            “But you hated me. After Stonewall, when I wouldn’t come out.”

            “I didn’t, and now you’re interrupting me.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            Napoleon took another deep breath, though he was aware he should be more careful with his damaged, healing lungs. “I didn’t hate you. I tried. I couldn’t. I… more hated myself.”

            “For…?” Illya said cautiously.

            “For leaving like that. I am _sorry._ ”

            “Should I… should I give you more time?”

            “Stonewall… I thought it would change things. I knew you were worried about being out in public, but I thought after Stonewall it would change. I thought it was obvious, that once that happened, it would be safe.”

            “Safer,” Illya said after Napoleon had stopped talking. “Not fully safe.”

            “But I never understood why,” Napoleon said. “Illya, please. For the sake of what we had, if not for the present, please tell me why you were so scared.”

            Illya said, “It was my family.”

            Napoleon took Illya’s hands. “Tell me.” Because “my family” could mean so many things.

            “My family…” Illya said unemotionally, “they disowned me because… because Mama found out I was gay. I left the USSR and never looked back. That is why I went to England to study, and then here to work.”

            “And your KGB bosses never objected to your being gay?”

            “They never said so. Honestly, I think some of them were gay themselves… maybe bisexual? I don’t know which, but… when they said, ‘Illya Nickovitch, there’s an international agency         who wants to hire an agent from our side,’ I just said, ‘Yes,’ and so I came here, and they’ve never bothered me.”

            “Even… even when you left U.N.C.L.E.? I mean, wasn’t that the arrangement, you were on loan to Alexander?”

            “They said… Pyotr said… when I told Mr. Waverly I had this offer from Columbia, Waverly just said, ‘I’ll take care of it,’ and I never heard from Pyotr except a handwritten note in our private code that said _Go and take care of yourself_ and something on the order of _fly, be free_.” Illya blew his nose.

            “Pyotr,” Napoleon said. “Your old boss.”

            “And technically my boss right up till I left the agency to take that offer from Columbia. Not anymore, though.”

            “This is the Pyotr who was your first lover.”

            “First real one, yes. For a while. Until he got the promotion and became my boss. After that we agreed we had to stop the… the other.”

            _Did you still love him?_ Napoleon wanted to ask, desperately. _Do you still, now? As I still love you?_ But he said, “I’m sorry. I interrupted. Go on.”

            “I forgot where I was.”

            “Your family and the KGB.”

            “Yes. Well. There isn’t much left to say about it.”

            Napoleon was torn between pressing for more and letting the pressure up. He opted for a happy medium: “Did your whole family feel that way?”

            “Maybe… I don’t…” Illya sighed out a long breath. “I am not sure. I never saw my grandparents or my aunts and uncles after that… but maybe Olga…”

            Napoleon said, “Your sister.”

            “Da. And, and Oleg. The twins, the two of them. We were only two years apart, and when Mama and Papa made me leave, I saw them… I saw them looking at me out the window, and Olga was crying and Oleg looked angry and maybe they were sad and angry at _me_ or maybe feeling helpless because of what our parents did… only, only, Polya, I don’t _know_.”

            “Oh, Illya. All this… and I never knew. I’m so sorry.”

            “So maybe one, just one, of my family, didn’t think I was an abomination. Maybe. I think.”

            “Oh, my little friend, I can’t imagine what that feels like.”

            “… and then I turned right around and did the same thing to _you._ ”


	9. Chapter 9

            “You didn’t,” Napoleon told Illya, sounding startled. “You didn’t disown me.”

            “I as good as did. You left, didn’t you?”

            “Ilyusha… Illya my love…”

            That was the second time Napoleon had said _love_. _Don’t point it out, don’t point it out…_ “Yes?”

            “Did you think I was leaving because I didn’t love you anymore?”

            “Like my parents didn’t?” Illya said. “I see what you’re saying. I… I am not sure I knew what I thought, when you left. I was so confused, and Polya, Polya, my beloved… I loved you and I still do and I am so, so very, very sorry I ever gave you cause to think otherwise.”

            Napoleon’s grip on his hands tightened again. “I love you. Oh, Illya.”

            “Kiss me.”

            It was light and tentative and not at all like their usual ones. _Usual,_ Illya thought dizzily, _what the hell does usual mean, now? And who cares?_

            “Polya,” he said, very quietly. “Come back to me.”

            Napoleon started to cry.

            “I did. I have. At least I’m trying. When I… when I showed up at your office that day, so confused I didn’t even know the day before had been Thanksgiving… I went to you because I was scared… I thought I was going to die, and I wanted to see you first.”

            Illya hugged him hard. “You aren’t going to die.”

            “I didn’t know that _then._ And I thought… I thought… if I die before seeing Illya, and he finds out, he’s going to be so angry with me…”

            “Shh. Shh. Polya. Shh.”

            “… silly, isn’t it?” Napoleon sniffled, blew his nose. And then coughed. “Ow. Damn it.”

            Illya sat up, bringing Napoleon with him. “Stop crying. It’s bad for your lungs.”

            “I can’t…” Napoleon coughed again. “Ow. My ribs are so sore.”

            “So accept the fact that I love you, and stop crying.”

            “I can’t stop! Illya, do something!”

            “You need the nebulizer. Right now. I’ll go and get—”

            Napoleon clutched at him. “Don’t leave me.”

            “No,” Illya said gently. “Never, ever, ever. Come with me, then. Your nebulizer awaits in the other room. But starting tonight we are sleeping in the same bed.”

            Napoleon took his hand and got up and followed him, coughing, into the guestroom.

            “Polya?” Illya said a few minutes later, when the nebulizer had calmed the coughing fit.

            “Um?” Napoleon said through the nebulizer mask.

            “What’s in that box? The one Kyril hid for you that day you went out by yourself.”

            “That,” Napoleon said severely, “would be telling. But Illya, look at the clock.”

            It was one minute past midnight.

            “Merry Christmas,” Napoleon said, and took the nebulizer mask off, and kissed him.

 

            They yawned their way through the early part of the morning, and Napoleon took a long nap before the guests were to arrive. Illya, still yawning, was nonetheless too happy to rest. He puttered about tidying up after half-grown kittens—the harassed Kotka was hiding behind the living-room curtains—and setting the table and putting Napoleon’s present under the Christmas tree. When the apartment-door buzzer sounded, he went to let Ada in.

            “Merry Christmas, Illya! I hope I’m not too early.”

            “Not at all.” He kissed her on the cheek. She’d been such a good neighbor, if you left out the fact of her cat knocking up Kotka. “Come in and make yourself at home, you know where the liquor is. I’m saving the Starka for after dinner, though.”

            “Got it.”

            “Excuse me, I’ll just go get Napoleon up.”

            Napoleon was already sitting up in bed. “Guests?”

            “Just Ada, so far. Don’t hurry.”

            “I’ll get dressed.”

            “You’ll sit with the nebulizer and you’ll take a shower and _then_ you’ll get dressed,” Illya said severely, “… but you can make the shower a fast one. Although I, personally, think you smell good just as you are.”

            Illya wasn’t _perfectly_ happy; the one thing he’d still avoided was whether he was ready to come out publicly. Oh, yes, their friends had known—Mark Slate, and April Dancer, and Illya was pretty sure Susie the doorwarden had known, too. Certainly Mr. Waverly had. And Illya had more or less told the Horvaths; and as to Kyril, well, the man was gay as a treeful of monkeys himself, and no slouch at sniffing out fellow travelers.

            But Illya wasn’t ready to tell the whole world. And so a grain of trouble remained to taint his happiness.

            Napoleon was in the living room, talking to Ada, by the time the Horvaths arrived. Everyone swooped down to help carry the food into the kitchen, but once it was all there, Ilona shooed everyone else out and set about putting the finishing touches on Christmas dinner. “My darlings, if you love me, leave me alone with my cooking.” So they sat back down in the living room.

            Kyril arrived, and Susie and Mr. Waverly came nearly together. Then there was a gap in the arrival of guests; Illya began to wonder where April and Mark were. They arrived eventually—together, and looking serious. They took Mr. Waverly aside and talked in low tones for a minute. Illya started to ask if everything was all right, but got distracted by Ilona’s brief emergence from the kitchen to ask whether he had moved the cake slicer again, and by the time that was sorted out all the guests were chatting merrily together. Helped, Illya observed dryly, by the contents of the liquor cabinet. So they were really quite merry when Ilona came out of the kitchen again to say that everything was nearly ready and they could eat in a few minutes, “by which I mean it is time to open presents. _Then_ we can all eat.”

            They exchanged gifts. Liquor was popular, including Napoleon’s bottle of sake for Mr. Waverly. The old man looked very happy—although he had for most of the afternoon. “Napoleon, dear boy, I can’t thank you enough for this.”

            Napoleon smiled. He’d been doing a lot of that today.

            The second bottle of sake went to Mark. He offered it around. Napoleon said, “I have something for Illya—”

            “No, me first,” Illya interrupted. “I have two things to give, actually. First—Mr. Waverly—Alexander—”

            Their one-time boss looked up. “Yes?”

            “I have no other gift to give you. What I have is an apology for what I said in the hospital, and a hope that will forgive me.”

            Was that a shimmer of… _tears_ … in the old man’s eyes? “Dear boy. Of course I do.” He cleared his throat ostentatiously. “Now give whatever it is to your—partner.”

            Oh yes. Waverly knew.

            Illya took a small box out of his pocket. “Napoleon, this is… not exactly new. You gave it to me once. I hope you won’t take it wrongly that I now want to give it back. It is not that I don’t want it. But I never properly accepted it, and I want to do this because… because you deserve it. And you can give it to me again, whenever you think that I… that I’m ready.”

            The halting explanation puzzled the guest, but Napoleon, recognizing the box, said, “Oh, Illya.”

            “Open it. Please.”

            Napoleon, shaking, took the lid off the box and lifted out the little carved sphinx that he had given to Illya when asking him formally to come out in public with him. “Oh, Illya. My…”

            “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” April said disgustedly. “Get on with it and kiss him.”

            Laughing, Napoleon leaned forward and did so. This time, unlike the time when Napoleon had presented the sphinx, Illya didn’t pull away.

            “I’ll keep it,” Napoleon said, “until I think you’re ready.”

            “Thank you.”

            “And now the last thing. Kyril?”

            “It’s by the door, Napoleon Stepanovitch.”

            Napoleon went and fetched the large box Illya had seen on the day of Napoleon’s taxi ride. The card on top read _For the Professor’s Office_ , in Napoleon’s handwriting. Illya carefully lifted the box flaps apart and parted some brown paper surrounding a large… something. A _heavy_ large something. “Can someone help me with this?”

            Janos took charge and pulled the box down as Illya pulled its contents up. He set it on the table in front of him and pulled the wrappings off. And nearly lost his breath. “Oh, Napoleon.”

            It was a large, elegant brass samovar. Illya said, “Where did you get this?”

            “That would be telling,” Napoleon said happily. “I know how you hate that electric kettle.”

            Illya leaned over to kiss him. Before pulling away he whispered in Napoleon’s ear, “I’m not quite ready for the sphinx yet.”

            “I know.”

            “Well, finally,” April said. “Can we eat now?”

 

            Stuffed and beyond stuffed, they retreated after dinner to the living room, and Illya brought out the Starka. Everyone had a little sip, and then some more. Illya said, “Napasha, you don’t mind if we finish this?”

            “It’s yours to decide, Illya.”

            “Save a little,” Mr. Waverly advised. “For some private celebration.”

            “All right, then!” Illya got up. “Coffee, anyone?”

            The phone rang.

            Oh, for heaven’s sake, who was calling on Christmas? Illya picked up the phone, determined not to be bothered by sales calls today of all splendid days, and said, “Not right now,” and hung up. “I’m going to start the coffee. How much should I make?”

            Responses hailed him, and he went to the kitchen, happy beyond compare. He would sort it out with Napoleon, he had no doubt of that; and Napoleon loved him. Again. No, still. Had never stopped, apparently. Illya was whistling the tune to “Kaliadka” and pouring coffee when the phone rang again.

            “My dear Napoleon,” said Mr. Waverly, “you might want to answer that for him.”

            “Illya, keep pouring, and I want whiskey in mine.” Napoleon got up and went to the phone table by the front door. “Kuryakin residence, how can I help you?”

            Most of them weren’t paying attention—but Mr. Waverly—Alexander—was. And… why were Mark and April trying to pretend they weren’t? Illya put the coffeepot down. “What’s going on?”

            Napoleon said into the phone, “One moment, please,” and said to Illya, “Can you hush? I can’t hear with you complaining.”

            “Da,” Illya said, sulking a little. Napoleon might be his acknowledged lover again, his partner, but it was Illya’s phone…

            Napoleon turned back to the receiver in his hand and said, “I’m sorry. Can you say that again?”

            Someone spoke at the other end. Napoleon said, rather more politely, “Certainly. One moment, please,” and held out the receiver to Illya, looking confused. “It’s the American Ambassador to Poland.”

            Now Illya was confused. “Who? And why?”

            “I don’t know. Talk to the man.”

            Illya grumpily took the receiver. “This is Illya Kuryakin.”

            A male voice on the other end said, “Good evening, and Merry Christmas, Dr. Kuryakin. I apologize for disturbing your festivities, but the matter is… important, or at least I think you will find it so.”

            “I shall, in that case, do my best to assist you,” Illya said icily, “but to whom am I speaking?”

            “My name is Lawrence Crenshaw, and I’m the U.S. Ambassador to Poland. I am temporarily at home, and I’m calling from my home in Washington, D.C. I don’t know how to introduce you to my visitors—”

             Now why _were_ Mark and April, not to mention Alexander, looking so intently at him?

            “—so I think I will just let them speak for themselves. Although you may wish to sit down. Sir?”

            A moment passed with something said in the background. Then a gruffer male voice came on the line. “Illya?”

            “Yes?”

            “Illya, my boy,” the man said in Russian. “Do you recognize my voice?”

            The hairs on Illya’s arms shot straight up. This was… no, no, not possible. “I’m sorry, you—”

            “I understand if you do not. It has been so long. But I am very much hoping.”

            Illya dropped the phone and crashed to his knees. This _wasn’t_ possible. Napoleon raced over, put his arms around Illya, and picked up the phone again.

            “Hi. Sorry. Illya’s having a little trouble articulating right now. Can I tell him who this is?”

            And Illya heard what came out of the phone.

            “This is Nicko Kuryakin,” the man said in heavily accented English, “and I would like to speak to my son.”


	10. Chapter 10

            Everyone was staring. Illya couldn’t make up his mind whether he should cry or throw up. Napoleon hugged him tight with one arm and said into the phone, “Sir, my name is Napoleon Solo and I’m a friend of Illya’s. I’m afraid you’ve surprised him. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

            Illya sat up and took the phone back. “… Papa?”

            “Yes, Yushka, yes, it’s me.”

            The baby nickname, from time out of mind. “Papa, what is happening?”

            “It’s a very long story, Yushka. But maybe someone should tell it who… well. Someone else.”

            “Papa—”

            A new voice. “No, Yushka, my darling. It’s your mother. And before you say anything, let me say: I am sorry.”

 

            Napoleon hadn’t realized until they were gone that the company had quietly cleared the table, washed dishes, stowed leftovers in the fridge, and rearranged the depleted liquor cabinet. Some of them were gone, anyway. But Illya was still talking.

            “All of them. They’re here, they’re in Washington, they’re safe…” He wiped away more tears. There had been a lot of them. “They’re safe, and what my mother said…”

            Ada and Kyril and the Horvaths were gone, Janos with a huge wink to Napoleon. Susie had put on her coat with Waverly’s courteous aid, waved cheerfully to everyone, and departed.

            “… they got out, they’re safe…”

            Napoleon put a glass in his hands.

            “… all of them. Mama and Papa and the twins… and there are little ones… and Oleg’s wife… my grandparents, Auntie Masha, Uncle Lavrenti…”

            “Illya, drink that.”

            Illya drank, still dazed. He didn’t even object to the whiskey, which he loathed. “All of them,” he repeated. “All of them. And she loves me.”

            Napoleon, in tears himself, hugged him tight. “Yes. She does.”

            “How they heard about Stonewall, though…”

            Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. “That… may have been my doing.”

            Napoleon had figured that out. “Illya, drink. Sir, I expect April and Mark had something to do with it too.”

            “Of course they did,” Mr. Waverly said crisply. “They’re quite good at what they do.”

            So Mr. Waverly had sent them, and they’d gone, and Napoleon wanted to kiss them. “But how did you find them?”

            “It wasn’t finding them that was hard,” Mark said. “It was persuading them of our bona fides.”

            “Which you did how?”

            “Secrets, dear boy, secrets.” Mr. Waverly tapped the side of his nose.

            Illya had taken another drink of the whiskey, blinked, and said, “Napasha, I hate this stuff.”

            “Shut up and drink it, there isn’t enough Starka left to get you drunk on. Alexander, I’m dying to hear the story.”

            “No need to go that far. I could simply tell you. But… I want something.”

            “What, then?”

            “I want to know what you’re planning to do about your employment situation.”

            Napoleon hesitated. Mr. Waverly said, “Or perhaps should say this more bluntly: are you going back to your present employers?”

            “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t had the chance to think that far ahead.”

            Illya tensed under his hands. “Polya—you’re not leaving?”

            “No. Not leaving you. I just don’t know about work.”

            “Mr. Solo, I spoke with your employer this morning,” Mr. Waverly said.

            Napoleon’s eyebrows went up. “Did you, now.”

            “I did mention that she’s an acquaintance.”

            “Yes. But—”

            “She didn’t have a specific message for you. She did ask you to call her when you have this sorted out.”

            “I don’t _know_ when I’ll have it sorted out!”

            “Then let me ask a question that may help.”

            “Very well,” Napoleon said, feeling like a sulky child. “Ask.”

            “Will you come back to my agency?”

            In the dead silence that followed, Napoleon swallowed. “Why?”

            “You should know I always have an eye out for good agents,” Waverly said. “And especially given what you have been up to recently, I know that you are more than good.”

            “Sir—”

            “Let me finish,” Waverly said. “Despite what I just said, I’m not looking for field agents.”

            Napoleon was aware of Illya, Mark, April, all gone silent. _And all U.N.C.L.E. people. Was that deliberate?_ Probably. And all of them standing there as if…

            “I’m looking for my replacement,” Waverly said.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            Waverly said, “I’m an old man, Napoleon. I wanted to retire some time ago. Five or six years, to be specific. But there were circumstances. I wanted to be sure of you first.”

            “Sure of me?”

            “When you left… well. Water under the bridge, now. Here you are, between jobs, aren’t you? I’m sure she would understand.”

            “That may be so, sir, but honestly, _I_ don’t understand.”

            “Don’t you get it?” April said. “You were the Heir Apparent. Everybody knew it but you.”

            “Me,” Napoleon said. “Me?”

            “You were everything I wanted in a successor,” Mr. Waverly said. “You knew the agency inside and out. You had a fine sense of strategy, a nose for people, and the diplomatic capabilities to act as a go-between with the agency’s outside partners. You were proven loyal to our codes and policies, and you had the ability to think and plan on multiple levels simultaneously. You knew the New York Bureau like the back of your hand—”

            “I’ve been away for five years.”

            “You’ll get it back, I’m quite sure.”

            “I don’t have the administrative experience!”

            “You ran Operations and Enforcement very well. As for the parts you don’t know yet, you’ll learn. Miss Dancer has asked to stay on as Deputy… her recent assignment to do with the Kuryakins was a personal favor to me… but that, of course, is up to you.”

            “What about Mark?”

            Mark Slate said, “I’m happy with O and E.”

            “You knew about this. All of you!”

            “Well, _I_ didn’t,” Illya said, “but what exactly are your objections?”

            Napoleon kept his hands still. “It’s about you.”

            “Me?”

            “You have to come back too.”

            Illya looked startled. Ha. Now the shoe was on the other foot. “I’ve got students to teach.”

            “Give one semester’s notice.”

            “I don’t know what I’d _do_ , if it weren’t your partner in the field, and you won’t—”

            “That’s easy,” Napoleon said. “Head of Scientific Development would do, wouldn’t it? Susie told me there was an opening there, too.”

            “Susie talks too much,” Illya grumbled. “All right, Napasha—but—but one thing, on your end too.”

            “Oh yes?”

            “When you left—was that because I wouldn’t come out publicly? Was there anything besides that, I mean?”

            “You mean your little insecurities about whether you were good enough? Nonsense,” Napoleon said. “You’re more capable in the field than I am.”

            “Oh, good Lord,” April said, disgusted once more. “You’re not starting _that_ argument again, are you? Napoleon left because you wouldn’t come out publicly with him. You’ve got your family back and your mother’s apology, Illya, so get on with it. Say you’ll do it.”

            “One thing I don’t understand,” Illya said to Waverly. “Why were they looking to leave, to defect, _now_?”

            “It wasn’t ‘now’ and it wasn’t a defection,” the old man said. “It was a legal departure, visas and safe passage included. Ambassador Crenshaw is an old friend of mine. And as to why and why now, dear boy, it was because the news of that incident at the Stonewall Inn finally penetrated to the heart of your home country. That was when they started looking for you; and a year and more later, when your partner left my agency, that was when I started looking for them. That we met in the middle was pure serendipity.”

            “Nonsense,” Napoleon said. “It was April and Mark’s hard work. Thank you, both of you. From the bottom of my heart.”

            “And mine,” Illya said.

            April smiled. “So you’re taking the job?”

            “I am if he is,” Napoleon said.

            “Oh, yes, make it _my_ fault,” Illya said. “Yes, I’m taking the damn job. I’ll give my chairman the news tomorrow before I head down to D.C.”

            “In that case, my work here is done,” Waverly said; and he escorted April and Mark out, himself smiling in huge satisfaction, them winking at Napoleon and Illya in the pleasure of a job well done.

            Napoleon picked up the whiskey bottle and its cap. “You want any more, little friend?”

            “No. I’m drunk enough. And we have a big day tomorrow—and you, my love, need your nebulizer and some sleep.”

            “Illya, one thing.”

            “Yes?”

            “If I hand you back the sphinx, will you come out in public with me now?”

            “Yes,” Illya said. “Yes, I’m ready.”


End file.
